


Blood Boiling Over

by MarsDragon



Category: Fatal Fury
Genre: Drug-Induced Sex, Fights, Hand Jobs, M/M, POV Second Person, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21644035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarsDragon/pseuds/MarsDragon
Summary: Always know what's in your drinks.
Relationships: Terry Bogard/Rock Howard
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	Blood Boiling Over

You're fuming as you stalk down the street. Kain is a low-down dirty filthy lying son-of-a- a- a- _bitch_ , and even if you knew that from the beginning you're still pissed off at how completely goddamn shameless the asshole was, and even more pissed off at how easily you fell for it. You even let him force one last drink down your throat instead of just beating the truth out of him, but that's how it is, isn't it? The real truth is that you're a moron that fell for every single one of his tricks. The fact brings heat to your face and a pounding in your head that beats to "you idiot you idiot you idiot" over and over again until it feels like your skull is going to crack wide open.

The dead don't come back. You knew that. You _knew_ that and still- Still-!

Stupid. Idiot. Dumbass. Gullible. Naive. Can't do anything without Terry. Should've just stayed home. It all just keeps going round and round as you stomp your way to somewhere, anywhere that's not where Kain is, not even looking where you're going until you smash into something solid and fall on your ass like a complete fool. 

You look up, confused, and there's a guy in front of you. Big, leather jacket, piercings, got "wannabe street fighter" written all over him and he's getting in your face. Something about needing to look where you're going because he's too all-fired important to pay attention to what's around him. 

You push yourself up off the ground and there's blue swirling at the edges of your vision. 

The guy's still shouting and you can tell he's working his way up to taking a shot at you. You cut to the chase and knock him down with one punch. Wham bam and now he's on his ass, there's a pain in your knuckles and the entire world _focuses_.

This is it, this is what you need. Fights are good, fights are clean, a fight lets you know who you really are. The swirling blue runs out of your eyes and down your arms, coating your hands in beautiful ghostly light that flickers like flame and dances like a storm. 

The guy's face is pale in the blue light when you hit him again. He's on his hands and knees and his friends are getting involved and that's good because he's _weak_ , he's much too weak to satisfy you.

His friends aren't any better. You dance between them without trying, smashing them down with quick, vicious strikes and it's barely a warm-up, they go down clutching themselves and crying before you can even start to cut loose. God, they're pathetic. Second South's better off without them. At best they're a pack of bullies preying on the weak because they're nothing compared to the strong, at worst they're the weak that claw and grasp and hold you back. 

Pathetic, just pathetic! 

No one would miss them if they disappeared.

No one would miss them if they died.

The blue covers your vision as you step forward on one of them. He's sobbing and cowering as blood runs down his face, all his bluster gone, and really, you're doing the town a favor as you pull your arm back -

-and the world turns upside down. 

Words come at you, in a familiar voice and an unfamiliar tone. They tumble meaningless around you and you can only catch a few: "hell" " _doing_ " "Rock!" but that's not important. What's important is right in front of you.

Terry's there. 

He's standing there, mad as hell and ready for a fight and that sets off real joy in your chest because it's _Terry_ and Terry always gives the best fights you've ever had.

You wipe your mouth off - it's stinging, must've been the fall - and spring to your feet. Terry steps back a bit, brings his hands up, and it's on.

It's perfect. It's wonderful. Terry hits you and you see stars, you hit him and he sways on his feet. You dash all over, trying to weave in and out of his guard and sometimes he catches you and sometimes he doesn't. Your feet hurt, your knuckles are bleeding, your chest aches, and everything around you fades into beautiful, brilliant white. 

You're flying. You're flying in a haze of adrenaline, pushing yourself harder and harder because this time, this time you'll fly straight past the horizon and find out what's on the other side. Terry's the only one who can take you there and he'll do it this time, you know he will.

You jump, body twisting like you're shooting hoops, energy flaring around your entire arm and giving you wings, the wings you need to fly away from the pain, the misery, the shame that's dogged you ever since you learned what kind of man your father was, and Terry's below you and -

and-

The white slips away and you can see everything laid out before you, like a picture. Terry's face is pale, set, and resigned. There's blood trickling from his nose and temple, there's bruises swelling on his face and chest, and he's not blocking. He's just...lying there, looking at you with horrible, sad eyes. 

Something awful and unnameable twists in your chest for just one second, but it's enough. Your fist smashes into the concrete floor - when did you move inside? - and chips fly everywhere. You land straddling Terry, shaking in the aftermath of a really good fight. 

Terry's talking again. He sounds a lot happier than last time, probably because you fought so well and he's proud of you. He's patting your head like you're a little kid again and usually that pisses you off, but the anger's gone. Something else is in it's place, something that curls around your heart makes you feel like you're floating. 

You watch Terry's lips move. They're stained with blood, cherry red where the harsh incandescent light touches and black in the shadows, and they're so soft and plush. You never really noticed that before - or you did, but never really...thought about it. 

The something around your heart pulls tighter. 

Your hips shift against Terry. You're half-hard after the fight like always, and usually you just ignore it until it goes away but...

You press your lips to Terry's and they really are as soft as they look. He tastes like blood and alcohol and the alcohol's kind of gross, but you lick deeper into his mouth anyway. It's great, strange and new, like a fight but different. Your heart is speeding up again, the wonderful tension running back down your limbs. You tangle a hand in Terry's hair - it's so nice and smooth - and squirm right up against Terry's broad chest as you keep kissing him. 

Until he jerks away and smacks you across the face. You're stunned for a second, and that's long enough for Terry to scramble out from under you and hit you again. He's talking again and you still can't understand the words. He still wants to fight? That's fine too, but you want- you want more. You want to touch him all over. You want to kiss him all over. You want to see him while you're touching and kissing him all over. That want's even bigger than the want to fight Terry and that's kind of scary, because this is the first time you've wanted something more than you wanted to fight Terry without him holding back.

You dive in with a gutpunch because that's what Terry wants, and while he's reeling from that you lick his cheek where the flying concrete drew a line of blood. He grabs you and shoulder-throws you to the ground, you jump up in a short Rising Tackle and flip into nuzzling his neck. He smells like Terry usually does, sweat, blood, and cheap deodorant, and even though it's the most familiar scent of your childhood there's something intoxicating about it now. 

He shoves you off and you lose a little patience, because you use two point-blank reppukens to smash him into a wall where he slumps over, stunned. You take the opportunity to kiss him again. It's just as good as before and he doesn't try to stop you this time; he lets you finish and looks at you with something determined in his eyes. 

He pushes you away and hell no you're not falling for that again, but before you can get yourself together he flips you around and holds you tight in his lap. Which still isn't good, because that means you can't touch or kiss him and you're scrambling to get free and fix that when his hand grabs your dick. 

You think you make a little squeak. Then Terry squeezes, and you definitely yelp. It's not what you wanted, but with Terry's strong arm around your chest and his firm body pressed tight behind you and his hand rubbing slowly on your crotch...yeah, this is fine. This is good too.

He's saying something, and you can catch a few words as you lean back and close your eyes to feel better. "Sorry" "so sorry" "got into you" "both alive" "sorry" "forgive me" None of it really sounds like it matters, not when Terry opens up your fly and his hand touches your bare, heated flesh. 

Wherever the hell you are isn't exactly cold, but it's cool compared to Terry's warm hand and the wild heat pooling inside your skin. Terry takes his hand away and did you just whine in protest? That's embarrassing as hell but Terry didn't leave, he just took the time to spit and then his hand's back and not quite slick enough but it's fine, you like the rough edge where his calluses scrape your sensitive skin. It's a nice contrast to his soft, worn gloves. 

You're squirming and moaning for more and there's a tiny part of you that's wincing at how uncool you are but then Terry's thumb catches the tip of your dick and you can't help making all these high, desperate noises because it feels so _good_. It's so much better than your own hand. Not that that stops you from grabbing Terry's hand with your own and trying to help, pushing him to squeeze a little tighter, rub a little harder, touch you exactly how you want to be touched. Your nipples are hard under your shirt and you're wiggling around, trying to rub yourself against Terry's arm around your chest because that feels good too, it all feels so good until it all trips over and you jerk in Terry's arms and come all over yourself with another loud, embarrassing noise.

Terry tries to pull his hand away but you keep it firmly wrapped around your dick until you've finished shaking your way through coming and even the swirling blue is gone under a languid contentment. You're warm - mostly - satisfied, and- And wait. Terry's hard. You can feel it where it's digging into your ass. 

You remember how much you wanted to touch him, how much you wanted to watch him. You remember how good you felt, and you have to make Terry feel like that too. You _have_ to. He deserves it.

He's let you go, carefully, and is starting to stand up when you grab his shirt and roll him to the floor. He snarls, but you put your hand right on his crotch, just like he did to you, and he turns quiet and pale in a hurry. You put your other hand on his chest because it felt good for you and there's something nice about touching him like that. He's all hard muscle under soft skin and it's delicious feeling the contrast as you slide your hand over his pecs. He makes a little grunting noise and turns his face away, but that means you can easily get at his neck so you start lapping away the trails of blood marking him and replacing them with marks of your own. 

You're marking Terry, and that sends something thrilling through your stomach. You suck at his neck - you want it to last, want to see it in the morning - and you can feel his dick twitching inside his jeans. He likes that. He likes it when you touch him, and that's another, stronger thrill. Suddenly you can't wait to get his pants open, can't wait to feel his dick in your hand and see his face when you jerk him off. 

He's even bigger than you expected. You knew Terry was big, because you've been around him forever and there's not a lot of privacy on the road, but you've never really paid attention to that before. You'd need both hands to do this properly, but you can't take your other hand away from Terry's chest because he gasps every time you brush his nipples and they're standing out under his shirt. You kiss one, open-mouthed and sucking, and the way Terry jerks under you more than makes up for how all you can taste is cheap cotton. His shirt needs to come off, and his jacket, and his pants, so you can see _everything_...

You squeeze Terry's dick and start jerking it hard and fast. It's rough and a little too dry because you're too busy sucking at his collarbone to lend any of your spit to the job, but you rub some of his precome around and your hand is still a bit wet anyway, so it's probably okay. Terry's face twists and his eyes are screwed shut, which means it's good enough. He's keeping his mouth shut too and that sucks, because you want to hear him too. You want to see him, hear him, touch him, taste him...everything. You want everything. You want to know every little bit of Terry right now, as deep and intimately as you can, because he's been everything to you ever since your mom died and you're only just realising what that means.

It's too soon for you to get hard again but you grind against Terry's leg anyway, chasing the painful pleasure of overstimulation because you need this, you need more, you need to keep pushing beyond your limits because that's the only way you know to be free. Terry shudders under you and you can tell he's close, his dick jerking in your hand, and you bury your face in his shoulder as he comes. 

Everything's quiet afterwards. Peaceful, even. The tension that's been running through you all evening is gone. Your body feels incredibly heavy, and it wouldn't be so bad to close your eyes now, would it?

You fall into darkness, curled up against Terry.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll get around to writing the Terry POV and the morning after...sometime. Eventually. You know. There's an actual plot in the background but I sure as hell didn't write it here. 
> 
> (spoilers: no one's happy the next morning)


End file.
